Fifi caught him to her heart, and wept plentifully, tears of joy.
But there was some one else to see—and that was Cartouche, who was always in his room at that hour.
"Now, Toto," said Fifi, as she slipped softly up the stairs, still squeezing him, "I am about to make a formal offer of my hand to Cartouche; and mind, you are not to interrupt me with barking and whining and scratching. It is very awkward to be interrupted on such occasions, and you must behave yourself suitably to the situation."
"Yap!" assented Toto.
The door to Cartouche's room was a half-door, the upper part of glass. This upper half-door was a little ajar, and Fifi caught sight of Cartouche. He was sitting on his poor bed, with a large piece of tin before him, which he was transforming into a medieval shield. He was hard at work—for who ever saw Cartouche idle? But once or twice he stopped, and picked up something lying on the table before him, and looked at it. Fifi recognized it at once. It was a little picture of herself, taken long ago, when she used to sit on Cartouche's knee and beg him to tell her stories.
